


a strong man’s love

by debilitas



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Size Difference, Strength Kink, Trans Brick, Trans Male Character, trans mordecai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21827602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Brick’s really strong. Mordecai’s really into it.
Relationships: Brick/Mordecai (Borderlands)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	a strong man’s love

**Author's Note:**

> it’s 3k words of dude porn what can I say  
> brick uses a packer/prosthetic/strap. written by a trans man

“It won’t open.”

“What do you mean it won’t open?”

Roland shoulders past Lilith, wrapping one, then two hands around the handle of the door. It’s made of metal, and so heavily coated in Pandoran graffiti that it nearly camouflaged against the rest of the building. 

Roland cements his boots in the sand, and pulls. The door doesn’t budge. 

Lilith huffs. “Told you.”

Mordecai is sitting in the sand nearby, leaning back against the outrunner. He’s alternating between feeding himself and Bloodwing sunflower seeds, flicking shells towards a pile of stray garbage. 

Their newly formed group are barely more than strangers, but they already know Mordecai well enough to not ask for help with the door.

“Lemme try.” 

The sun is blotted out by Brick’s bulk as he steps into view, cracking big knuckles. Mordecai half expects for the handle to simply snap off in the man’s grasp, until he takes hold of both sides of the metal door and pulls.

One flex of powerful muscles, and the door is ripped clean off its hinges. Brick stands triumphant, lifting the hunk of metal above his head. It just _looks_ heavy, and is about as wide as he is. 

Mordecai chokes on the sunflower seed he’s eating, then tries to disguise it as a cough. Roland’s trying his hardest not to seem impressed, eyes moving back and forth between Brick and the cleared entryway. Lilith’s face is a mask of bewilderment as she gives him a polite golf clap.

Beaming under the attention, Brick holds the metal tighter, and there’s absolutely no way that he’s—

The steel screeches from the strain, but bends into a crude horseshoe shape. Mordecai thinks he might be fucked.

A week passes, and the absurd display of strength still plays in the back of Mordecai’s mind. He begins seeing everyone and everything on Pandora in terms of what he thinks Brick could or couldn’t snap in two.

A skag? Messy, but easy. A claptrap unit? Little harder, but completely possible. The heavy rifle weighing him down? Like a toothpick. Mordecai himself? So, _so_ easy. 

He feels it when Brick offers a friendly pat on the back, or shoves past to size up the contents of a chest: that raw strength lurking just beneath the surface.

His theories are confirmed one blazing afternoon, when the ragtag group is making their way through a bandit camp. Mordecai is knelt far away from the action behind an abandoned truck, peering over to pick off unsuspecting victims.

It’s during one of those peeks over the sunbleached hood that he spots Brick — in the dead center of the conflict, of course — just as he takes hold of a Mordecai-sized bandit. He grips the bandit by bony upper arms, spinning them in a tight circle before tossing them out into the desert.

A hundred odd pounds are slung across the fray and out of sight like a frisbee. Mordecai feels a thick bead of sweat form on his brow under the leather of his mask. Hands uncharacteristically unsteady, he fumbles through the process of reloading his rifle on autopilot, thoughts elsewhere. 

He’s always been a fan of excess; and now that he’s thinking about it, all of his past partners had something about them that was big. Brick though? He’s in another league. A ducked head and turning sideways in doorways, biceps bigger than his skull league. Everything about him, to the very marrow, is larger than life.

Brick turns back to grin up at him, and Mordecai knows he’s absolutely fucked.

After so many years behind a mask, Mordecai had long since stopped regulating his expressions. There were countless unsuspecting people that he’d raised a skeptical brow to, immature faces he’d made in secret. He’s especially thankful for the goggles, now that they give him free reign to ogle Brick without suspicion.

Until they don’t.

It’s another humid night, and they’re all huddled into a cramped bar a few miles outside of New Haven. The group is well on their way to real friendship by now, more laughs than sneers. Hell, occasionally they’ll even say something encouraging.

Mordecai stands just outside the entrance, forgotten bottle of ale in one hand as he awaits Bloodwing’s arrival. The warm light coming from inside the bar is blotted out when Brick shuffles over to him, asking for his opinion on something Mordecai’s only half listening to. Instead, he’s much more focused on Brick’s hands gripping the top of the doorframe, every muscle in his arms now on display.

The hair on his forearms is thick, but such a light shade of blonde it’s almost impossible to see. There’s also large gaps where it can’t grow over deep scar tissue, creating a patchwork of old wounds and body hair. A layer of sweat leaves his exposed collarbones slick-looking, polyester of his tank top straining with each rise and fall of his powerful chest.

_God,_ that chest. Mordecai’s given it a playful, mostly platonic pat before, always surprised by the feel of the solid muscle. He wonders if it would be malleable in his hands or completely hard and unmoving, then which he would enjoy more.

Brick trails off from his sentence, downturned lips curling up into a smile. Mordecai swears he sees the other man flex and swallows hard, throat bumping against plastic. ...Plastic?

It dawns on Mordecai that he, in fact, isn’t wearing his goggles. They are hanging around his neck where he’d left them after retreating into the inky night. Which means Brick can see his eyes, see him staring at anything but his face.

“You’re uh, very big,” Mordecai says dumbly.

Brick’s smile is proud, but not cocky when he replies, “Yeah, I am.”

Mordecai takes a swig from his bottle, taking the opportunity to tear his gaze away and look off into the darkness. The desert is quiet, save for the sound of very distant gunfire. A typical night on Pandora. Then why does this feel so significant?

“Must’ve gotten you a lot of action on Menoetius.”

“Not really. Everybody’s big there,” Brick tucks large thumbs — because his hands wouldn’t fit — into the front pockets of his jeans, shrugging. “I was the biggest, though.”

Mordecai feels his throat dry, tongue too heavy in his mouth. Half convinced that Brick’s developed his very own gravitational pull, he shuffles closer. Brick bends his neck and hunches his shoulders as he looks down at him expectantly. Mordecai decides he isn’t a fan of anyone being taller than him.

Looking up at Brick, it’s obvious that he’s not particularly handsome— nor ugly, for that matter. His forehead is massive, his brows have a perpetual angry angle to them, eyes beady. His jaw is as square as any leading man hunk’s, though, decorated with poorly maintained stubble. Nose strong and defined, but downturned.

_Not for everyone_ could be the right term for him. Considering that face and body also came with very little volume control, and even less for impulse. It’s why he’s a good fighter, good friend, but not much of a conversationalist. 

That doesn’t mean he never speaks; he’s always saying something, pitching into discussions or cycling through small talk. Brick is unequivocally genuine in every word he says. There’s never an agenda, nothing to read between the lines, so what he says is often simple. _Heart on his sleeve_ could work. 

Brick is a strange, bitter feast of a man that Mordecai has just the palate for. And he, at the risk of sounding desperate, is hungry.

If it was anyone else, Mordecai would already be laying it on thick. Standing a few inches too close, a hand on their forearm while he makes thinly veiled innuendos. He knows he’s not exactly easy on the eyes, especially after being baked in Pandora’s sun for weeks on end, but he knows how to pick someone up. Usually. 

Brick makes his empty stomach do somersaults, leaves his head too foggy for any finesse. Of course, Brick doesn’t seem to be the type to enjoy any subtle seduction. He’d probably appreciate a direct approach; welcome it, even.

They speak at the same time.

“Hey—“

“Do you—“

They share an awkward laugh that relieves some of the tension. Brick ducks his head, scrubbing the back of his neck while Mordecai watches him, scratching at his beard. He thinks about the isolated spot Roland parked the technical at, shaded by the limbs of a dead tree.

“You wanna get out of here?” Mordecai asks, throat just as dry as the desert around them.

A beat. Brick nods.

Mordecai backs up until he makes contact with the warm metal of the technical. Brick follows close behind, neck craned to reach his mouth, which he kisses with no real rhythm or expertise. It’s blind eagerness, pure impulse. Mordecai can’t help feeling like a small raft in the middle of the sea, swallowed up by impossibly large waves. 

Brick then cradles Mordecai’s head in one hand, taking the opportunity to move to his throat when he leans into the wide palm. It’s equal parts lip and teeth, stubble scratching the exposed skin of his neck. 

Mordecai tips his head back even further, making a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as Brick lavishes the exposed column of his throat. Their bodies are pressed impossibly close together, chests meeting with every hurried exhale. Mordecai digs his nails into strong arms, already trying to climb the other man like a tree through the heated haze of arousal.

Skinny legs hook around Brick’s waist and he isn’t remotely fazed by the extra weight, starting to rut against the other man. Each snap of his hips feels like getting hit by a truck, Mordecai and the technical he's propped up against jolting from the impact. 

Big hands grip the side of the flatbed, and the thought of Brick crushing it between his fingers is enough to make Mordecai drop his feet and begin to strip. He starts with his vest, making quick work of the zipper and shrugging the brown material off into the sand below. Before he can expose his chest to the night air his gaze wanders back to Brick's, watching his necklace bounce rhythmically on the swell of muscle. 

Brick halts his movements when slender fingers grip the bottom of his tank top, blinking back at him.

"What?" Mordecai says wryly, fingertips ghosting across the skin of his hips. "I wanna see."

" _I_ wanna see," Brick echoes, nodding toward Mordecai's own torso.

"You first." 

And with that, Mordecai maneuvers Brick's tank higher. Feeling his throat dry with every inch of exposed muscle until the polyester is above the man's pectorals and he swallows hard. Jagged pink scars are barely visible under the bulge of muscle, sparse hair growing wherever there isn't healed over lacerations. He wonders if Brick remembers where all the scars came from, and if he'd ever tell him the stories of how he got them.

Brick tugs the tank over his head, dropping it next to the discarded vest in the sand. With a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth he places both hands on the back of his neck, putting his entire upper half on display. 

Mordecai would chide him for being a show-off, if he had any blood left in his brain. He's grateful for the technical he's balanced against, not certain he'd be able to stand on his own at this point. Brick is so impossibly huge. So muscular, so _strong._ Mordecai isn't entirely convinced that he isn't dreaming.

If he isn't dreaming, he's the luckiest man on Pandora— no, in the entire damn solar system. 

Mordecai is temporarily frozen in place, unsure of where to start, drowning in the possibilities. He's lightheaded, still trying to comprehend the sheer expanse of the body in front of him. Then he reaches out, Brick's skin warm and rough under his fingers. His hands are hurried, trying to feel every inch of exposed flesh as their lips reunite. 

Now he can feel all that powerful muscle move beneath the skin as Brick moves with him, one hand trailing underneath his shirt. A single palm is almost the width of Mordecai’s entire back, a shiver running down his spine at the feel of it. 

Brick leaves more sloppy kisses across his face until he reaches his ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin. 

“Wanna suck you off.” Brick’s attempt at a seductive whisper is closer to a normal speaking voice, but it still sends another rush of heat through Mordecai’s body. He makes a choked off noise over a big shoulder, feeling the scratch of stubble against his neck when he nods. Brick could do just about _anything_ to him right now and he'd enjoy it.

Mordecai starts to work on his belt buckle, stomach lurching as Brick drops to his knees. He moves like they’ve done this a thousand times before, no shyness in the way he touches him. 

Then the belt is loosened enough for him to shimmy out of his ill-fitting pants, yanking both them and his underwear over his boots. He feels his dick practically throb with arousal when Brick grips him by the thighs, curling scrawny legs over big shoulders.

Brick’s mouth covers him entirely, wide tongue licking up before his lips wrap around the length of his dick. Mordecai gasps, anchoring a hand on Brick’s head as he digs his heels into his back. Battle-worn hands hold his hips in place, nose crushed against warm skin as he sucks eagerly. Stubble scratches his inner thighs, every sensation peppered with an intensity that’s characteristically Brick.

Mordecai’s normally a talker, repeating a series of _yeah, you like that_ and various Spanish curses, but he can’t form a coherent thought. Brick’s mouth is warm, wet, and unrelenting. And he’s hot. There’s a satisfaction in earning Brick’s attention, his attraction. 

Mordecai loses himself in it all, head lolled back and chest heaving. He’s only vaguely aware of a broad tongue, then a finger clumsily slipping inside him, and the breathy protests when he instinctively constricts around it. It’s been awhile since anybody’s done _that._

“Easy, Mordy.” The words rumble deep in Brick’s throat. Lips moving to kiss his inner thighs like it’s where they should’ve been this whole time. A tenderness emerges in the sloppy movements of his mouth, handled with a level of care normally reserved for lovers. “Easy.”

Mordecai eases. Through heavy lids he watches Brick press his middle finger inside, up to the knuckle. He’s uncharacteristically methodical with his movements, very much aware of how big the digits really are. It’s a stretch to get to the hilt base, but not an unwelcome one. 

Brick’s mouth returns to his dick, sucking slowly while working him open. The combined sensations are infinitely more pleasurable than they were on their own, just slow enough that he can’t come from it. Mordecai doesn’t know how Brick is already so attuned to him and his body, but he sure as hell isn’t complaining. 

A handful of heated minutes pass, and Mordecai can tell they’re both getting impatient. He’s practically boneless by the time Brick retracts, standing up on unsteady feet. He seems to turn him around reflexively, and Mordecai’s head clears enough to understand the implications.

Brick’s used to being the impersonal brute force, playing a role identical to his one on a battlefield. Used to being behind, giving pleasure to someone who has no desire to see his face while he does it. Mordecai doesn’t get how anyone could misunderstand Brick so drastically, not notice the love and care he’s so capable of. Mordecai’s always had an eye for detail, though.

All assumptions are confirmed by the surprised look Brick gives when he turns back around to face him. Brick deserves reciprocation, approval, and praise. Someone who’s just as invested as he is. Mordecai thinks he might be that someone.

Mordecai gestures for Brick to lean down again, hooking both arms around his neck, scratching at the sunburnt skin. He closes the distance between their mouths, nearly kissing when he asks:

“Pick me up, big guy?” He’s grinning as he says it, suspecting that his silver canine glints when he does. Brick flashes that proud smile again.

Brick hurriedly loosens his belt, popping his fly open just as one of Mordecai’s hands wander back to his chest. Briefly feeling up the muscle, ultimately distracted by helping the other man with his fly. He wants to give Brick the visual of him holding his cock in his hand, quickly spitting on and stroking the rubber. 

Then strong hands grip the backs of Mordecai’s thighs, ground disappearing beneath his feet. It’s an odd sensation; feeling so weightless as a grown man. Brick holds him up easily, unbothered by the weight. Mordecai reaches down, blindly feeling for the man’s cock and attempting to line it up.

There’s a temporary burn from the stretch, and he bites down on the nape of Brick’s neck to distract himself. The skin tastes of sweat, tongue running over the indentations left by his teeth. He briefly considers if he’s in over his head, until a huge arm holds him in place, keeping him grounded. He relaxes, even managing a throaty, satisfied chuckle when he’s filled.

Arms laced tightly over strong shoulders, he tilts his head back to look at Brick. He’s clearly doing his best to restrain himself, tongue nervously swiping his upper lip and brows knitted in frustrated arousal.

While the position is exciting, it proves to be rather impractical. Shallow thrusts, constant readjusting, until they grow tired of it and settle for christening the flatbed of the technical. Brick even takes the time to lay out his discarded tank top, so Mordecai doesn’t have to lay on the hard metal.

It’s imprecise, messy, and so very _real._ Genuine, just like Brick himself. They regularly stop for embarrassingly tongue-laden kissing, or just to laugh. Not at each other, but out of the sheer joy of being together. Connecting. 

Mordecai’s so glad he came to this shithole of a planet.

He thinks Brick might be his best non-bird friend. Everything feels so natural, so easy, like they’ve been doing this for years. Mordecai drops several layers of irony, of bitter sarcasm when he’s with Brick, because he already knows he won’t be judged. Being genuine might be contagious. 

Brick comes first, snap of his hips stuttering to a desperate grind as he pants into Mordecai’s ear. A litany of _Mordy, Mordy, Mordy,_ and though his arms are the width of a pin in comparison, he hopes Brick feels safe in them.

Brick is temporarily dead weight on top of him as he struggles to catch his breath. He then tucks himself back into his jeans, and makes Mordecai come with his mouth.

Mordecai is quieter, making a choked off noise in the back of his throat, but it’s no less enjoyable. He lays there for awhile, eyes closed while Brick idly scratches at the dark hair on his thighs. A wave of contentment washes over him, and for a rare moment, he wants for nothing.

Their movements are sluggish in the afterglow, Mordecai unfolding a blanket Lilith will definitely make him replace after getting back into his pants. He fishes out his trusty lighter and a pack of smokes from the deep pockets, taking a drag as he lays back to watch the stars. Brick gets under the blanket with him, gripping his shirt with a shameless hand.

“Told you I wanted to see,” is all he says, caressing his small chest. He nuzzles Mordecai’s sternum, perhaps one of the only spots he hadn’t thoroughly appreciated.

Bloodwing eventually arrives, landing on the cab of the technical with a powerful beat of her wings. She warbles, and Mordecai half-heartedly shushes her, willing her to enjoy the moment as well.

Cigarette held between two fingers, he gestures toward the constellations above. Brick insists he can’t see any of them, but seems happy to listen. Bloodwing eventually settles, preening at tousled dreads.

With a strong arm thrown over his shoulders, Mordecai decides coming to Pandora was the best decision he ever made.


End file.
